Thirty Love
by Ellanorrr
Summary: AU, in which Sherlock, a semi-professional tennis player, married to his sport, with no interest in romance, and no friends, meets John, a first-aider at a tennis club where he plays. Inspired by me watching too much Wimbledon, just a bit of fun. Maybe a one-shot.


**Disclaimer: I own none of the characters used in this fic; it is based on the BBC TV series, Sherlock.**

**AU – Sherlock, a semi-professional tennis player, married to the game of tennis, with no friends and no interest in romance meets John, a lonely first-aider.**

Sherlock paid close attention to his opponent. He'd watched him play before, but just watching him now, it only took a few shots for Sherlock to find out all he needed to know about his opponent's game. Sherlock hit a forehand across the court to Lestrade's backhand with ease, and then returned to the centre of the court. It hardly took any time for a man as tall as Sherlock to move across the tennis court: he was gifted with long limbs; the best advantage there is in tennis. Lestrade sprinted across the court. Sherlock immediately noticed unevenness in his opponent's run. He fell heavier on his right leg than his left, the left spending more time with his weight on it. His knee was clearly injured, weakened from a previous match. Yet Lestrade still managed to return the ball. He was tiring though. Even before the ball was hit, Sherlock could see from Lestrade's body's orientation exactly where the ball was going to go. His quick, calculating, scientific mind saw that the ball was going short and wide, on Sherlock's left.

Sherlock raced to where the ball would fall. The ball fell exactly where Sherlock anticipated it would, and Sherlock hit an impressive drop shot.

"Thirty love!" Sherlock shouted, bluntly, and disinterestedly, not looking at Lestrade. Sherlock had always had a knack for anticipating his opponent's shots. It had astounded his coaches as a junior tennis player, and pushed him to become semi-professional at a young age. Of course, this didn't make Sherlock a perfect player. He wasn't the strongest, though his height allowed him to put more pace on the ball, he still had to work to keep fit enough. He did get bored though. Everyone was so predictable. Once you knew a few things about them, noticed their patterns of movement, everyone was so easy to beat. And Sherlock beat all of them, of course. Sherlock was already tiring of the match, becoming distracted. He adjusted the collar on his white polo shirt, as he prepared to serve the ball to his opponent's backhand, which he had already identified as weak.

A few shots into the point, a movement to the side of the court caught Sherlock's eye. Sherlock hadn't noticed there was a man watching, yet now –

Sherlock had taken his eye off the ball for a split second, yet that was all it took to break his rhythm. Sherlock quickly realised, though still a little too late that the ball would head in the complete opposite direction to where he was running and immediately turned. His weight shifted too quickly. His ankle twisted. Sherlock called out.

"Aaah! Lestrade, you complete and utter – " Sherlock cried out in anguish, as he collapsed to the floor, falling on one side of his body, a leg crumpling under his weight and his shoulder scraping across the court, as he slid across it, in an attempt not to crush his leg.

Within seconds, a short, surprised looking, fair haired man was kneeling beside him, eyes wide.

"Are you alright?" The man asked, hurriedly.

"It's my ankle. It's a sprain. I turned too quickly and –" Sherlock winced. "I'm fine though. Really." He insisted, not looking at the man. He tried to stand up, but his ankle hurt even more. Sherlock squeezed his eyes closed in pain.

"It's alright, I'm a doctor." The fair haired man insisted. Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly.

"No you're not." Sherlock snapped quickly. "You're still training. Right now, you work here as the first aid trained employee of the sports complex to pay for your medical degree, but you're not a doctor yet." The man's face fell. His jaw dropped open.

"Well…I…yes. But…"

"It's alright. I realise you just wanted to reassure me. Now you can consider me reassured, and I need you to _fix me!_" Sherlock spoke quickly, looking urgently and intensely into the slightly anxious, but supposedly reassuring blue eyes of the first aider. The man couldn't help but think Sherlock was being a little over dramatic.

"Ok. Yes. Of course. I can do that. That's what I'm doing. If you just stretch out your leg –"

Lestrade was standing behind Sherlock.

"Are you ok?" He asked, "Looks like you've hurt yourself. We can carry on later if you want – "

"I'm fine, Lestrade, just shut up and leave me. Yes, I've hurt myself as you so intelligently pointed out. Medical issues are clearly not your division. You're not needed here." Sherlock snapped. Lestrade held up his hands, in a sort of sarcastic apology, as he walked away, muttering something under his breath.

"Friendly…" The first aider muttered.

"What's your name?" Sherlock asked, stretching out his leg.

"John. John Watson." He said. John took off Sherlock's training shoe, rolling his white socks down slightly to look at his pale ankle. John's hands were cool and soft.

John looked up at Sherlock, his hand lingering on his ankle for a second.

"It's sprained." John announced, quietly.

"Like I said." Sherlock said, also lowering his voice.

"I can't really do anything but give you something to support it. Your shoulder looks painful though…" John said, moving over to look closer at Sherlock's shoulder. "Can we move over to the bench so I can clean it up?" John asked.

"I would advise it." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. Sherlock stood up, balancing one leg and supported by John. The smaller man struggled to provide enough support to carry Sherlock's weight, but Sherlock smiled and appreciated the sentiment.

"You were playing really, really well before." John said, as Sherlock sat down. John took out some antiseptic wipes from the first aid box in his bag. He dabbed it on Sherlock's shoulder, which was friction-burnt red raw, with a few grains from the tennis courts that had become lodged in his shoulder when he fell. Sherlock didn't reply to the compliment, and tried not to show his discomfort from the stinging antiseptic.

"I'm sorry. It'll hurt a little."

"No, no, it's alright." Sherlock said, watching John, whose eyes were fixed on Sherlock's shoulder. John was incredibly gentle. Sherlock usually became agitated by the roughness of doctors and medics, but John was almost…pleasant to be helped by. And that was saying something; Sherlock wasn't the biggest fan of physical contact, particularly with strangers.

"You didn't ask my name. Why?" Sherlock asked, feeling slightly wounded that John wasn't as interested in Sherlock as Sherlock was in him. John stopped tending to Sherlock's shoulder, looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"Uh…I ah…I already know who you are," John said, with a disbelieving frown, "I've been watching you!" He exclaimed. "I mean, I've been watching some of the matches you've been playing. You're Sherlock Holmes!" John looked embarrassed. "I mean, you're very good." John was blushing. Sherlock supressed a massive grin, which was threatening to take over his whole face.

"You play, don't you?" Sherlock asked. "A couple of times a week, when there's no-one around?" John looked surprised.

"How do you know?" Thoughts of being watched started running through John's mind.

"Your right arm is slightly stronger, more muscular than your left, suggesting a sport which places more strain on your right arm. A professional would know to keep up your left arm's strength, but you have a noticeable difference to a keen eye. I saw you roll back your shoulders like they hurt – an injury from practising tennis without a coach to instruct you on how to serve without injury to your shoulder. And I suspect your bag is so large because it contains a racket. Oh, and your appreciation for my match play suggests an aspiration to someday play in the same way." Sherlock announced, smiling proudly. John looked sheepish. Sherlock looked at him for a moment. He was intrigued by this man, in a way which was uncharacteristic of Sherlock, a man who was married to his sport, and couldn't count even one friend.

"Would you like to have a match sometime?" Sherlock asked, smiling. John looked taken aback.

"What? I - Yes. Ah, yes, yes, I'd like that." John replied. "Only once your ankle's better though. And if let me sort out your shoulder."

**Author's Note: Thank you for reading, let me know what you think, if you like it, tell me and I'll write more! I'm still writing my Sherlock-Hannibal crossover, An Intervention, but I had this idea, and thought I'd give it a go, just for a bit of fun, just to try something different.**


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